


What the Tide Dragged In

by Mighty_Ant



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: AU, Character Study, Drowning, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Near Death Experiences, What's Fethry been up to?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25732696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mighty_Ant/pseuds/Mighty_Ant
Summary: Steelbeak's master plan ends in failure when the satellighthouse explodes, taking him with it.
Relationships: Fethry Duck/Steelbeak
Comments: 17
Kudos: 148





	What the Tide Dragged In

Steelbeak’s life can easily be split into three parts. 

Admittedly, the underground fight club takes up a good chunk of it. Next is prison, which would’ve been rough enough without adding a busted face and several of his former rivals all crammed under the same concrete roof. Third is F.O.W.L., who plucked him out of his cell before he could be killed in his sleep and dropped him into a suit, gave him a new face, and told him  _ you’re going to help us steal the world.  _

Steelbeak always thought he would die young in a ringside accident that really wasn’t. When that was no longer an option, he assumed prison would do him in. But F.O.W.L. just had to pick him up out of the gutter and give him ideas that were bigger than himself, make him think because they had already given him so much he could demand more when it suited him. 

He isn’t prepared for the fall, and when it comes, he falls far and he falls hard right there on the satellighthouse. 

Jumper cables wrap around his beak and pain arcs through his body, ice cold fire in his veins making his limbs twitch. He’s lying on his back, staring up at a slate gray sky. There’s a sharp burst of crimson light, his plan succeeded after all or did it he can’t remember exactly—

He’s used to pain but he’s never felt anything like this before, licking at his face and his clothes and his skin, burning through the feathers. It’s fire, he’s never been on fire before, so that’s new. 

The world that was once so quiet is falling around his ears, deafening him on all sides and all he sees is red red red. The sensation of falling has never been a blissful one but this is no dream, and he falls for what seems hours and yet the barest of seconds. He collides with concrete, or at least it feels that way at first, setting every one of his nerves alight. But he continues to sink and cool cold dark envelopes him and the ocean burns in a way entirely unlike fire, it burns to soothe and every one of his muscles finally stops screaming. The slate gray sky falls away and gets smaller and smaller and Steelbeak knows that he must swim toward the surface but he can’t move even if he wanted to. He’s failed hasn’t he and if the ocean doesn’t take him  _ they  _ certainly will—

Lights and color blind him, overwhelm him, tear the breath from his lungs. The world is firm beneath his hands but it spins around him, narrowing to pinpricks. It’s his fault his lungs only spasm, unable to expand, unable to breathe, he can’t breathe  _ why can’t he breathe. _

Noises enter garbled and foreign in his ears but there’s  _ something  _ pounding on his back, encouraging, and he heaves. He coughs up an entire ocean and salt scraps his throat raw but his lungs expand and contract like they’re meant to, though it’s probably a bad thing that it hurts as much as it does. His arms shake and he’s weak and he’s  _ shaking  _ what kind of F.O.W.L. agent  _ drowns _ , those stupid Eggheads are probably all laughing at him in the break room Heron has already laughed in his face. He coughs and coughs and it hurts to breathe and that  _ something  _ next to him moves but he turns to see what it is and he moves too quickly and the world falls away—

It’s dark again and he’s weighed down not by the ocean’s crushing depths but the sharp, thrumming ache of his body. He’s colder than he’s ever been and at the same time his skin burns and it’s like being electrocuted over and over again.

The darkness surrounding him is shapeless and yet something moves, something close to his face too close.  _ Danger _ , his mind screams, and he knows not to let his guard down outside the ring, not when he has enemies around every corner waiting to gag him and and force him outside with the muzzle of a gun pressed against his spine and he may be their best fighter but that doesn’t mean he’s anyone’s favorite. The inmates hate him too and he knows that they’ve made shivs out of their toothbrushes and he can never let himself fall asleep, laying down with his hand under his pillow clenched around a razor he can’t let any of the guards discover. 

He’s engulfed by darkness and something moves toward him out of that dark and Steelbeak does what he does best, he lashes out even though he can’t see what or who or where he’s hitting. His swing is wild, uncoordinated, sloppy, his heart pounds in his ears and it hurts to breathe but his fist makes a solid, meaty  _ thwack  _ as it collides with the something looming over him. There’s a cry, a crash, his assailant falls. Steelbeak is still alive so he considers it a victory. A voice rises out of the darkness, not angry or scared but soft and frantic with apology. The words glide over him and he catches none of their meaning but now Steelbeak is confused and his head and his heart and his body pounds like one massive bruise and it’s easy to close his eyes and surrender to darkness, the threat has been taken care of he’s in no danger now—

A voice follows him into oblivion, musical in quality.

_ I’m sorry for scaring you. No hard feelings, I promise!  _

  
  
  
  


Steelbeak opens his eyes. 

And immediately clenches them shut when even that small stimulation sends a lightning bolt of pain radiating through his skull. He groans, reaching up to scrub a hand wearily down his face. He rubs his eyes hard with his thumb and forefinger and sees stars when he opens them again. There’s less pain now, more of a dull roar than a dull knife, and he’s able to take in his surroundings for the first time, albeit with a great deal of confusion. 

His jacket, shirt and tie are missing, as well as his shoes, leaving him clad in his black suit pants and undershirt. He’s laying on a narrow bunk scarcely wide enough to fit someone of his size in a strange, compact room with a low ceiling. There’s a small folding table beside him littered with water bottles, damp rags, and a bottle of vinegar. There are bookshelves brimming with titles he’s too far away to read and a kitchenette where pots and pans are stacked in the sink and a mug that reads  _ let minnow if you love the ocean  _ sits on the countertop. Steelbeak’s bewilderment only grows when he notices the window on his other side, strange and small and round; a porthole. And on the other side, miles of endless, pale ocean. 

He’s on a boat, he quickly surmises. Though  _ how  _ he got here is another mystery altogether. 

A clatter puts him on alert, but sitting up too fast proves a mistake when his vision swims more than the subtle rocking of the boat can account for. 

“Oh good, you’re awake!”

The voice, cheery and light, comes as much of a shock as his new surroundings do. Steelbeak turns to face it, slowly this time, as the owner of the voice steps through the door at the end of the cabin. Much of the fight drains out of Steelbeak at the sight of them; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a less threatening person in his life. The duck, while lanky, is on the short side and has a scruffy, unkempt look about him exemplified by the way the too-long sleeves of his red coat nearly hang over his hands. He beams at Steelbeak though, and that alone is enough of a surprise to nearly distract him from the large, purpling bruise nearly swelling the duck’s left eye shut. 

“Who the hell are you?” Steelbeak says—or means to say. He’s prevented from saying much of anything when his beak outright refuses to open. Panic descends over him at once, heartstopping in its intensity. A shout claws its way up Steelbeak’s throat and his hands go desperately to his beak, trying to pry it open. Heron was always going on about sealing his beak shut once and for all and she must have found a way, and this duck, so unassuming and smiling, must be a F.O.W.L. operative doing her dirty work for her. 

“Hey, hey!” the spy cries, rushing over. He’s carrying several empty plastic buckets, which he lets fall to the ground. “You’re okay, friend! Nothing to worry about, the seawater just rusted your beak shut, just a little. Nothing a little vinegar can’t fix!”

Steelbeak freezes, his heart slamming against his ribs. The spy, perhaps mistaking his stillness for calm, picks up one of the rags and the bottle of vinegar on the folding table. He keeps up a running commentary as he does so, his voice breathless and changing pitch with seeming wanton disregard. 

“I meant to take care of the rust before you woke up, so you wouldn’t have to worry. I didn’t think you’d be awake, actually awake, so soon after your fever broke but you’re a fighter, aren't you, buddy?”

He douses the rag in vinegar and moves to Steelbeak’s face, too fast for his liking. Were it anyone else, Steelbeak might have broken their hand, or shoved them away at the very least. But the duck is...very small compared to him. He doesn’t speak with the sly cunning or purposeful friendliness of a spy, and his earnest expression is entirely unlike the blank visors and blanker faces of the Eggheads. Not to mention to black eye the duck is already sporting. 

So Steelbeak doesn’t force him back, but even worse, without aggression as his recourse he flinches, pathetically, away from a duck who couldn’t be more than half his weight. It’s as though he’s forgotten everything he’d learned in and out of the ring, under the yoke of his prison sentence, even as a part of F.O.W.L. Vulnerabilities get you killed. And Steelbeak just revealed the mother of all vulnerabilities to a probable spy. 

The duck blinks, seemingly startled by Steelbeak’s retreat. “Oh,” he says, and a smile, small and chagrined appears on his face. “I’m sorry, did you want to do it yourself? It’s just that I don’t know if you’ll be able to get it all, and I-I don’t have a mirror I can bring you.”

Part of Steelbeak wants to snatch the rag out of the duck’s hand anyway, to sneer and loom and lick his wounds in solitude. But contrary to whatever Heron may believe, he does have a shred of common sense. He has no idea where he is, how long he was out, or who this stranger is. The faster he can rid his traitorous beak of rust, the faster he’ll get his answers. 

Steelbeak chokes down his pride and shakes his head, motioning for the duck to get a move on it. Rather than take offense at his rudeness, the duck smiles. He never seems to stop smiling, really. 

“Don’t you worry, I’ll have your beak back to normal in a jiffy,” the duck says, soaking the rag anew. This time, when he reaches for Steelbeak’s face, his movements are markedly slower. Steelbeak might almost mistake it for a sign of fear, except the duck looks him straight in the eye and brightly says, “My name’s Fethry, by the way. Though I suppose we can save proper introductions for later.”

  
  


Steelbeak doesn’t even require the use of his beak to get the answers he seeks out of Fethry, who hardly allows a moment of silence to pass between them as he periodically dabs at the rust with vinegar. He’s talkative, though not in a droning way like other scientists he’s met or nearly as self-important as those like Heron. Because Fethry  _ is  _ a scientist, a research scientist as a matter of fact, and they are onboard his research vessel. 

“I was down here, below deck, when Mitzy saw you,” Fethry says as he tidies up his living space during one of the intervals where they must allow the vinegar to settle. “You were in...pretty bad shape. It looked like you got caught in the explosion that took out the lighthouse in Hookbill Harbor. There’s nothing but rubble left now.”

Over the course of a few hours, Steelbeak becomes aware of four things in halting, gradual succession. One, his slapdash master plan to make the city stupid definitely didn’t pan out. Two, not only did it not pan out, Heron’s useless gun must’ve overloaded the bigger gun in the satellighthouse. Three, Fethry doesn’t work for F.O.W.L.—Steelbeak would’ve already been drawn and quartered if he did, not tended to in a bumbling yet competent fashion. And four, if F.O.W.L. isn’t interrogating him at this very moment, they must not think he survived the explosion. 

He feels very proud for coming to this tidy revelation, but it doesn’t last long. Shock descends over him in dumbing quantity, deafening him to whatever Fethry continues to say. As rash, impetuous, and stupid as he is, he’s never not had someone to answer to. Some greater force that determines his fate whether by money, power, or threat. His life up to now fits into three neat little boxes: the arena, prison, and F.O.W.L. As independent as he likes to believe himself, he’s always been under someone’s thumb. 

But… 

But if he’s  _ right _ . Well, if he’s right then he might be free for the first time in his life. 

The notion is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. 

“You okay there, pal? You look like you’re miles away.” 

Fethry’s eyes are wide with concern, and his hand is on Steelbeak’s arm. Not gripping or pulling but simply resting, a grounding presence. Steelbeak knows that no one has ever looked at him like that. 

He nods, haltingly, and Fethry smiles. 

“Good. And hey, maybe you can tell me that for yourself! I think I’ve gotten the worst of the rust off.”

Steelbeak works his jaw for a moment, oddly feeling more exposed now than when Fethry was removing the rust from his beak. 

“Who did that to your face?” are the first words out his mouth in four days. He gestures to Fethry’s rather spectacular black eye, which has gone unexplained even amid his litany of storytelling. 

Fethry freezes for a moment. “Oh,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting. Um.” His gaze flits away and he rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable for the very first time. “I, uh, ran into the door earlier! Clumsy me.”

For years, Steelbeak has interrogated lowlives and criminals, witnesses and informants. Even with all of that, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone lie as badly as Fethry does. 

“It looks like someone suckerpunched you,” Steelbeak replies dryly. As swiftly as he deduces this, quicker still does it set his teeth on edge. Fethry is almost criminally slight; while a stiff breeze is hardly liable to knock him over, his wrists are thin and he’s already made six fish puns in the hours since Steelbeak awoke. Even if they were enemies, he finds it hard to believe he’d harm the duck so viciously. 

A thought occurs to him, sharpened by memory.  _ Mitzy  _ found him, Fethry had said. “The other person here with you, did they do that?” Steelbeak demands. 

Fethry quickly shakes his head. “No, no! Well. Yes, technically. But he- _ they _ did it by accident, I’m sure of it!” 

Something about the way Fethry continues to avoid eye contact niggles at the back of Steelbeak’s mind. Fethry’s black eye is fresh, maybe a or two day old. He thinks back to the days he spent lost in a cloud of fever, suffocating and burning. With a start, he recalls swinging at an unknown attacker in his muddled state, the meaty  _ thwack  _ of his fist hitting home. 

“Did I do that to you?” 

Steelbeak hopes that the answer will be no. But Fethry is a horrible liar. 

“It’s not your fault!” Fethry says at once when his attempt at evasion falls through. “You were completely out of it, and when you started panicking I got worried and got a little too close.”

Steelbeak can’t remember the last time he felt discomfited by having caused someone harm. Maybe he never has. But then he’s never been on the receiving end of charity either, and for the first time he’s hurt someone he never had any intention of harming. 

“Well, uh,” Steelbeak crosses his arms, uncrosses them, and crosses them again. “I’m, uh...I’m sorry about that.”

Fethry beams, looking relieved. “Apology accepted. And don’t even worry about it, I’ve had to deal with my share of bumps and bruises.” He moves to take some of the used rags to the sink when a tight, unfamiliar emotion rises in Steelbeak’s throat. 

“You should put some ice on that,” he says in a rush. “That wasn’t no love tap. Your eye’s probably gonna get worse before it gets better.”

Fethry chuckles, wincing as he reaches up to prod the delicate, bruised skin around his eye. “That sounds like a good idea. I guess we’re taking care of each other, huh?”

Steelbeak exhales in a startled rush, leaning back against the wall of the cabin. That’s...well. No one’s ever offered to help him before, never without artifice or strings attached. 

“I’ll be outta your feathers soon,” he says as Fethry collects the handful of empty buckets he came in with.  _ Where  _ he’ll go, well, he doesn’t have the faintest freaking clue, but something tells him F.O.W.L. won’t be an option. Not anymore. 

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Fethry says distractedly as his stack of buckets tilts precariously. “Just focus on getting better!”

Steelbeak shakes his head, determined now. “No, I owe you one. Whatever you need, I’ll get it done. Need me kill someone, steal something, return your overdue library books, whatever.”

Fethry’s laugh ends in snort that Steelbeak finds more charming than he should. “Raincheck on that favor, buddy. But, oh! There is one thing.” He smiles around the buckets. “What should I call you, Mr. Steel Beak?”

He takes a startled moment to answer, gaping too much to speak. Fighting an incredulous smile, he replies. “Uh.  _ Steelbeak _ .”

Fethry laughs so hard he drops every one of the buckets he was carrying, and Steelbeak joins him despite his protesting ribs. 

  
  
  


Steelbeak has no prospects and nowhere to go. 

Aside from a few cash drops he’s set up throughout the city, all of his money is tied up with F.O.W.L. and he can’t touch any of it if he wants to keep letting them think he bit it up on the satellighthouse. His best bet is to get all of his cash together and buy a one-way ticket to the other side of the globe, far away from F.O.W.L’s base of operations and start fresh there. It’s the safest bet, and probably the smartest decision he will have ever made. 

Of course, that’s precisely why he doesn’t do it. 

The first day he can stand up without feeling dizzy, Fethry shows him around his lab setup above deck and introduces Steelbeak to his team. Then he looks Steelbeak in the eye and asks, “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Steelbeak replies. 

Fethry’s no fool; he knows that Steelbeak is more than he seems and is just as dangerous as he appears. He’s seen the speed of his reflexes, the way Steelbeak jumps at any unfamiliar sound, the scars littering just his arms and back, too large and too plentiful to be passed off as accidents. There’s a knife missing from his cutlery drawer because Steelbeak’s taken to sleeping with it under his pillow, prepared to act in the event that the boat is ever raided. 

Fethry is no fool. But he is lonely and kind and sees fit to bestow that kindness on Steelbeak, though he is perhaps the least deserving of it. 

“Why don’t you stay here?” Fethry offers, his ubiquitous smile turning wry. “Until you figure something out, at least.” Steelbeak will learn later that he is nephew to Scrooge McDuck and a thrill-seeker in his own right. He fought sky pirates in his youth and stared into the inky abyss of the deepest depths in the blackest oceans without blinking or breaking. 

Steelbeak scoffs. “Why, you in the market for an assistant?”

Fethry rolls his eyes but he’s kind about it, always kind. “How about a friend?” he says. 

Steelbeak is pretty sure the way he feels about Fethry goes a little beyond friendship and likes to think that the feeling’s mutual, but even he can see the olive branch for what it is. 

His options are a life of complete uncertainty or a reprieve in anonymity (however brief) with the only person he’s ever trusted with his life. 

A smarter man would cut all ties and disappear into Toucanada, work for a low-level crime boss or loan shark. But Steelbeak has never thought of himself as being particularly smart. 

For the last year, he’d thought his life would remain split into three distinct parts: the arena, prison, and F.O.W.L. Steelbeak thought he would die in one of the three-grand, finely pressed suits they’d filled his closet with. 

He almost did. 

But now his suit lies in tatters on some distant shore and Fethry buys him normal, practical clothes on a brief shopping trip in town. Now Steelbeak rises with the sun because Fethry never misses a sunrise after four years deprived, he helps Fethry with his research which invariably leads to all sorts of fantastic calamities such as dodging pirates and discovering ancient underwater cities populated by strange races of fishpeople. 

He’s Fethry’s friend, his partner, his protector. There’s no one to give him orders, to make him feel small or stupid. He  _ decides  _ to let Fethry’s nephew examine his beak, and feels proud of it for the first time since it rusted shut when the kid calls it “a revolution in prostheses.” He sleeps curled around Fethry in their small bunk, his hand curled around the handle of a knife beneath the pillow. 

He’s never been purposeless before, never  _ not  _ had a role to fill, even if that role always seemed to be  _ prisoner _ . 

Steelbeak supposes that he’ll just have to get used to freedom.    
  
  
  
  



End file.
